The Dream of a Summer's Day
by Glory1863
Summary: What really happened to Shran in sickbay after the Ushaan duel and what he thought was happening. Spoilers for Babel One and United.


The Dream of a Summer's Day

It is said that the noted Earth author William Faulkner wrote that for every Southern boy there is the opportunity to dream of a bright, early July morning before the battle has started, before the charge is made, before it all goes terribly, horribly wrong.

The Imperial Andorian battle cruiser _Kumari_ and the Earth starship _Enterprise_ floated side by side in the midst of the Delphic Expanse. _Kumari_ had come to the aid of _Enterprise_, had used its tractor beam to free it from a spatial anomaly, but the _Enterprise_ had still suffered extensive damage. Commander Thy'lek Shran of the Andorian Imperial Guard, and _Kumari's_ commanding officer, had offered technical assistance with repairs and the protection of his ship to his counterpart, Captain Jonathan Archer, assistance Archer gratefully accepted. With repairs to _Enterprise_ now nearly complete, command officers from both ships - Shran; Lieutenant Talas, _Kumari's_ tactical officer and a woman of striking beauty; Archer; Trip Tucker, _Enterprise's_ engineering officer; and Malcolm Reed, _Enterprise's_ armory officer – had met in the wardroom of the _Enterprise_ to discuss plans for a joint search for the Xindi superweapon.

Over dinner and after a couple rounds of the fine Andorian ale Shran had brought to the table, talk had eventually shifted to other things; indeed, Shran had just finished telling the story of how his home city had survived an horrific 900-day siege with only a single tenuous supply line to the planet's surface during the dynastic wars of the early days of the Andorian Empire. Trip Tucker, who claimed he didn't really like history, had expressed his appreciation of the story, and of Shran's ability to tell it, as he had pushed the bottle of ale in the Andorian's general direction. Shran had merely tilted his head toward Tucker in acknowledgement of the compliment as he poured himself another glass.

Tucker took a sip of his drink and then proposed to tell a story of his own, a story from what he called "the Late Unpleasantness", one he was sure the Andorian would like, one that was full of bravery and glory. Seeing Shran's perplexed expression and having a good idea of what was coming, Archer had explained that Tucker meant the American Civil War (1860-1865, Earth Standard) and that the story was also one of great sadness and loss. Tucker had shot his captain a look and muttered, "Yankee!" Shran's antennae moved forward slightly and quivered almost imperceptibly. He sensed a disturbing undercurrent here, one he did not understand. Whatever "Yankee" meant, it was clearly an epithet, just as "pinkskin" was, and it seemed that Tucker had not used it entirely in jest. He noted the far away look in Tucker's eyes and that his unusual accent had become more pronounced. Tucker had continued softly, "Yes, the day we lost it all." In the deep silence that followed, Tucker went on to tell the story of July 3, 1863, the third day of the great battle outside the small Pennsylvania town of Gettysburg, the story of Pickett's charge, the story of the day the dream – the Cause – and several thousand young men had died.

The following year, Shran and Talas were again aboard the _Enterprise_, but the _Kumari_ was gone. _Enterprise_ had answered the distress call, but upon arrival had only been able to rescue survivors – 20 from the ship's compliment of 86 - from the escape pods that dotted the debris field, all that remained of the once powerful and elegant vessel.

_Kumari_ and _Enterprise_ had both been bound for Babel One where trade negotiations were scheduled between the Andorians and the Tellarites. The Andorian ambassador's ship had been destroyed along with the _Kumari_, but the Tellarite delegation was aboard the _Enterprise_, an unfortunate circumstance as Shran believed that a Tellarite vessel had destroyed his beloved ship. Ordinarily, even on his worst day, he would not have thought the Tellarites capable of badly damaging _Kumari_, much less destroying it, but this phantom ship had been more heavily armed and astonishingly more maneuverable than a standard Tellarite ship, so disobeying Archer's direct orders and circumventing the security measures he had put in place, Shran had staged a raid on the Tellarite ambassador's quarters in hopes of extracting the truth from him. Archer had controlled the situation, but not before Talas had been wounded by the ambassador's aide. Dr. Phlox, the _Enterprise's_ chief medical officer, had diagnosed a superficial phase pistol wound to her shoulder, but complications had developed and the young woman had died.

The sudden, unexpected loss of Talas, following so soon upon the destruction of the _Kumari_, was devastating to Shran. Not only had she been his trusted tactical officer, she had also been his deeply loved companion. Now, in an effort to avenge these losses, to maintain what little of his honor remained (as he perceived it) and to assuage his deep, unremitting pain, he had challenged the Tellarite aide to the _Ushaan_, a traditional Andorian ritual combat, but Archer had intervened (or meddled as Shran saw it). For political reasons, he could not allow either a Tellarite or an Andorian to die - the trade negotiations and the search for those behind the phantom vessel would come to nothing if he did - but he was expendable, so according to the voluminous rules of the _Ushaan_ he had substituted himself for the Tellarite. According to the same arcane rules, the _Ushaan_ was not necessarily a duel to the death as advertised. Honor could also be satisfied by merely incapacitating one's opponent, although Archer seriously doubted that Shran would consider such an outcome to be "satisfying."

Dr. Phlox had prepared himself to receive a moribund human. He thought it highly unlikely that Archer would be able to overcome the elite Imperial Guardsman, and although he hoped that Shran would settle for seriously wounding Archer, in some sort of acknowledgement of their tenuous friendship, he also seriously doubted that, under the circumstances, the Andorian would be so inclined. Phlox had seen Shran's solicitous behavior with his crew in sickbay, the mixture of deep sorrow, guilt and anger in his eyes and then his sheer agony when informed of Talas' death. No, he was convinced that it would be blood for blood and death for death. He was, therefore, amazed when the patient the corpsmen brought to sickbay was not Archer but an unconscious Shran close to cardiopulmonary collapse, the result of traumatic shock from a severed left antenna and resultant near-exsanguination. Phlox automatically began to assess and treat his patient – protect the airway, maintain breathing, maintain the unusual Andorian circulatory system, stop the bleeding, replace the volume loss and treat for pain. It would be a delicate balancing act involving cardiac stimulants, drugs to support blood pressure, electrolytes, fluids given in judicious amounts (just enough to maintain circulation but not so much as to put the heart into congestive failure) and pain medication, all in an attempt to keep Shran from going into an irreversible cascade of organ failure. It was going to be a very long duty shift.

Shran regained consciousness in a place of intense brightness, stifling heat and the appalling noise of a rolling artillery barrage. The earth shook beneath him as gun after gun discharged. They seemed to be aiming at a low stone wall and a small clump of trees on the ridge across the valley. The pain in his head was excruciating, and not helped at all by the tremendous noise and heat. He tentatively raised his hand to the left side of his head. When he withdrew it, his fingers were covered with warm, sticky blood. He vaguely remembered being in hand-to-hand combat, but with whom and precisely why were a mystery to him. He noted that he wore a uniform of fine, heavy gray cloth, cloth more suited to a much cooler clime. On the sleeve was an intricate pattern in bright braid that ran from his wrist to his elbow -- surely an indication of an officer's rank? -- but he could not decipher it.

He seemed to remember serving somewhere before in this kind of heat, but not here. No, that place had been a desert, all reds, oranges and browns. This place seemed to have been a prosperous farming region before the war came. Log fences still marked the boundaries of fields near the road across the valley. He saw the ripening grain field that had been trampled in some earlier titanic struggle and the remnant of an orchard where only a few splintered trees remained. The only harvest now would be one of death. He shuddered at the thought of it and for a moment actually felt cold.

He suddenly realized it had become quite still. The thunder of the cannons had ceased. He saw movement at the edge of the woods. There were long lines of men emerging from the cover of the trees. Some were dressed in gray as he was, but others (most?) wore garments in shades of brown and even blue that were not proper uniforms at all. A puzzled frown expressed his sense of disapproval. They were being addressed by a seemingly young, exuberant officer with long, curly, light hair. Because of the distance, the aftereffects of the cannonade or perhaps as a result of his wound, he could not hear what the officer was saying, but he could guess. Exhortations to give all for duty, honor, country, to prepare them for what they must do, what they must face. Was that man his commander as well as theirs? He did not know.

The unit moved out now, obliquing down toward the fences, the road and the stone wall on the ridge across the valley. A flag caught a slight puff of breeze and flashed brightly in the sunlight. Its field was red covered by a blue cross containing white stars. It should have mattered deeply to him, yet he felt only emptiness as if he had never seen it before. The first of the lines had reached the fences and was tearing them apart or climbing over them. They had now come under long-range artillery fire from the unseen enemy on the opposite ridge, and holes were opening in their ranks. In the back of his mind he noted that the mighty barrage to which he had awakened seemed not to have been particularly successful at counter-battery suppression and that the monstrous guns had yet to resume fire. Still, the lines moved on to the road and then stopped. He watched in stunned amazement as, under fire, they dressed the line as calmly and efficiently as if they had been back home on the Academy's drill ground performing the graduation day exercises. A memory stirred. He was a young cadet again, receiving from the hand of a revered general, and under his family's proud eyes, his officer's commission in a Guards regiment. He also remembered that the day had been blessedly cool.

The lines were moving again up the ridge toward the stone wall. The lighter sounds of small arms fire were added to the heavy noise of the great guns. He thought himself to be a capable, competent military officer. By training, he knew what was going to happen, had to happen, and yet he sensed that he had actually seen it all before, had actually been in this place before. But how could that possibly be? Was it a lesson from his days at the Academy? He watched the lines rapidly thin like ice melting before a flame. His mind said, "look away," but he could not. Only a small band of men actually made it to the wall. An officer, the pattern of bright braid on his sleeve similar to that on his own, had placed his hat on the tip of his sword as a guide to lead his men forward. He watched as this man stepped on top of the wall. Again, his mind said, "look away," and again he could not. As if in slow motion, the officer fell from the wall, tumbling in among the still unseen enemy. His men, now leaderless, slowly backed off and began the long, painful retreat to their side of the valley. It had to be a story, he decided, some great warrior epic he had heard from a fellow officer – or perhaps from a friend? The extreme heat and the intense pain from his wound had exhausted him and once again he was enveloped in darkness. He seemed to hear music this time, but could only catch a few words of the song: "Old times there are not forgotten. Look away. Look away."

Phlox watched the readouts on the medical monitors intensely. Shran's vital signs seemed to be stabilizing. They were still erratic, but the wide fluctuations of earlier in the day seemed to have resolved. Still, he had thought that several times before that evening, only to have one parameter or another suddenly crash. He was concerned about the doses of some of the drugs he had administered to Shran; doses he knew were in excess of anything described in the medical literature. Being unsure what he could or should do next if the current treatment regimen failed, he had contacted the Andorian Imperial Guard Medical Unit for consultation. They had been quite helpful in his treatment of the surviving members of _Kumari's_ crew, but suddenly seemed reluctant to divulge any further information. Gods above! Did they think he would parley all of his knowledge into some kind of bioweapon to be used against them? How could they so easily, so callously, write off a valiant officer who was fighting desperately for his life?

Shran awoke again, this time to voices in a language he did not think was his own, but one he nonetheless understood. A dignified, older and quite distinguished-looking gentleman – clearly this man was the army's commanding general - had ridden down to meet the returning remnants of his shattered command. In a firm yet quiet voice and with a face etched with grief he told them, "It's all my fault. It is I who have lost this fight, and you must help me out of it the best way you can. All good men must rally." The commanding general then turned to the officer with long, curly, light hair, an officer who no longer seemed so young or so exuberant. "General Pickett, place your division in the rear of this hill, and be ready to repel the advance of the enemy should they follow up their advantage." Pickett's voice broke as he replied, "General Lee, I have no division now." From what Shran could see and what he could remember, that assessment seemed to be true enough for many lay dead upon this battlefield. The harvest of death.

Phlox had been too busy to discuss Shran's case extensively with Archer, but in a quiet moment had sent him a message indicating that his patient was still in serious but stable condition. It had come as a surprise to him when one of his technicians had mentioned the rumor floating about that Archer had not realized that the antenna was a vital organ and that damage to it could be life threatening. Phlox searched his tired mind for what he had told Archer before the start of the _Ushaan_. It seemed like years ago rather than just yesterday (?). He remembered suggesting that Archer use a steroid-like performance-enhancing drug. He remembered suggesting that Archer try as best possible to continuously move just outside Shran's reach, rather like the famous Earth boxer Muhammad Ali, and let Shran's higher metabolism and the ambient temperature of the Enterprise, which Shran found somewhat uncomfortable at the best of times, exhaust his opponent. He did not remember Archer asking anything about antennae, but in all honesty, he did not remember volunteering any information either. Phlox knew that Andorian antennae were extremely delicate sensory organs involved in color vision, depth perception, hearing, sense of balance, limited telepathic power and sensuality in addition, obviously, to cosmetic appearance. He knew that damage to them could result in traumatic shock and even death. Why had he not advised Archer? Had it merely slipped his mind in the hurly-burly of the last few days, had he assumed that Archer knew or had he feared that Archer, given this one means of incapacitating Shran and honorably ending the _Ushaan_ without dying himself, would not have taken the risk if he had known? A steady beeping interrupted his somber train of thought. He immediately looked worriedly to Shran's monitors before realizing that the sound came from his comlink, not from one of the alarms. There was an incoming message from the Andorian Imperial Guard Medical Unit.

Shran's world faded yet again, this time to a swirling white, like mist off open water in winter, but the being called "General Lee" remained, uniformed no longer in gray but in black, as he himself now was. The general spoke to him in a sad, low voice in a language he did recognize as his own. In perfect formal court Andorian, the general said, "Commander, I pray you are not badly hurt? You must see to your vessel and crew." For Commander Thy'lek Shran of the Andorian Imperial Guard memory suddenly came back in a wave of indescribable pain that overwhelmed him. He heard himself reply in a choked voice, "I have no command now. It – they – are dead in space." With great difficulty he raised his head and found he was utterly alone. "Oh God," he whispered, "_Kumari_ . . . Talas."

Phlox carefully studied his patient. Shran had presented as a difficult case, but he had managed to stop the bleeding from the severed left antenna, had stabilized his vital signs and had reversed the traumatic shock caused by the severe damage to this highly sensitive appendage. Indeed, it things went well, the antenna should be able to regenerate itself over time, and for his patient, all functions would again be as they once had been. In the meanwhile, however, Shran remained restless at the threshold of consciousness and clearly in great pain despite the medications that had been given to him. As Phlox prepared to give him yet another injection, an unusual combination of drugs finally suggested by the Andorian Imperial Guard Medical Unit, he heard his patient murmur, "Oh God, _Kumari_ . . . Talas" as tears slowly trickled down his pale blue face.

Phlox administered the medication then turned away to watch the readouts on the monitors. For all that Shran, like many Andorians, could be volatile, aggressive to the point of violence, territorial and suspicious almost to the point of paranoia, he was also a deeply honorable man who deserved to be treated with dignity and respect. Anything Phlox really needed to see was on the monitors. He noted the time of the injection on the PADD he carried. He also noted that Shran's vital signs seemed not just to be stabilized but to be trending back toward their normal Andorian baselines. He turned back to his patient who finally appeared to be deeply and peacefully asleep.

Commander Shran was startled into wakefulness in his private quarters aboard the Imperial Andorian battle cruiser _Kumari_. For a moment he was not sure where he was or why he had awakened. There were no alarms sounding and no urgent summons to the bridge. To his practiced senses, the ship both sounded and felt normal. He slowly sat up and quietly watched the stars pass the small window in the bulkhead opposite his bed.

"Beloved, what is it? What's wrong?" He heard the concern in the voice of Talas, a trusted officer, and even more, his treasured consort. She reached up to him. Her fingers gently stroked his white hair and then, feather light, touched his left antenna. There had been something, something sad, dark and even frightening just at the edge of remembrance, but he could not grasp it. Finally, he softly told her, "It is nothing, beloved, nothing." He turned to her, smiling, and held her gently in his arms.


End file.
